The Quiet Downfall
by docs pupil
Summary: There are whispers from the very cosmos that a war far greater than what has ever been seen is brewing. While the threat of what some call Ragnarok is closing in, the new king of Asgard must secure his position on the throne, while fighting back opposition from the inside and out.


_(This was written by request of an anonymous requestee through e-mail. If anything seems out of character or too far-fetched for the "Thor Movie-verse" please tell me, and I'll correct it as best I can. I apologize in advance to the actual Thor fans who may find fault with my writing.)_

Alfheim

At the crest of a snow covered hill, a grey cloaked figure surveys the pine-dotted land stretching out toward the horizon.

Even amidst the flurry of battle, the outskirts of the elvan villages provide the tranquility that once reigned supreme before all the turmoil started.

The cloaked figure trudges steadily on through the ankle high snow, heading for a shoddily built shack at the foot of the hill.

The stranger kneels low before the door, rapping a knuckle on the carved wood gently as it whispers to the occupants inside. "It's me. Let me in."

There's soft shuffling, then a small shadow can be seem peeking through the now open door to the dark inside.

The grey cloak scrambles inside on their hands and knees, standing to lock the door behind them.

All the children hiding inside greet her with suspicion and cringes, except one.

"Sybil!" A small, blonde-haired girl elf shouts her name happily, hugging her long legs through her rough peasant skirts. "You _did_ come back!"

The young lady places a gloved finger over her lips, shushing the excited little one. "Didn't I tell you I'd come back to help?"

A broad, heavy axe splinters the door, giving way to one of the enemy forces.

The pointed-eared children huddle together, shaking and tearing at the eyes.

The squat, ugly man-shaped alien reminds her of the trolls in the fairy tails she use to read when she was young. "Leave the children alone and take me instead," the woman insists, placing herself between the enemy and the scared elves.

The hairy beast of a man plants his sprawling palm over the top of her head, shoving her roughly to one side.

From a hidden pocket in her worn sleeve, she draws a palm length blade, brandishing it with a practiced motion of her wrist. While distracted with a struggling child in each hand, the woman finds an opening in the troll's piecemeal armor, stabbing the small blade between his ribs. The angry girl viciously wrenches it clockwise, ripping it from his body.

The warrior drops the children, crying out in agony as he clutches his side.

"Run!" She ushers the group of five out of the shanty shack and into the sparse woods.

With the sounds of war raging on all around them, the young lady realizes nowhere is safe for these children. As she looks above the snowbanks, she surmises that if the tall, alien evergreens can block sunlight, then they might provide enough cover for small, willowy children who can climb high enough.

She stops between the thick trunks, calling them into a huddle. "You kids have to listen to me carefully. I don't think I can keep you all safe running around a battlefield. I need you to climb up these trees as high as you can, and don't come down until the fighting is over, can you do that for me?"

The little boys and girls agreeing to her request, climbing the prickly branches with ease.

As the last child nestles himself in the pine, more of the armored troll men catch up to her. "There's the thief!"

A booming voice from behind has her turn to face her clearly angry assailants. She backs away from the four squat, ugly figures approaching, their large axes already drawn.

"Give us back the relic, and your death will be quick."

The young lady picks up her three layers of skirts, rushing through the ankle high snow away from the forest. Hoping to lose them in the nearby skirmish, she heads towards the sounds of clanking metal and battle cries.

"Hah!" A lanky, enthusiastic blonde expertly parries a dagger swing with one of his own, sidestepping to maneuver himself closer to a discarded sword in the snow.

The enemy troll grunts through his large nose, swiping angrily and clumsily at him with his larger blade.

The very human-looking man, in a very cocky fashion, parries the second blow with a hard upswing, hooking the toe of his boot behind his enemy's heel sending him flopping onto his back. "You fight like a oafish Jotun," he bravely mocks keeping the short blade pointing in the trolls direction as he backs away.

It picks its knife out of the snow, quickly gets back to its feet. It charges angrily at him again.

The warrior blonde kicks the fallen sword up into his gloved hand, deflecting the attack with a haughty flourish. He jabs his gold dagger into the shoulder of his assailant, crippling his fighting arm.

The troll staggers back, holding the wound.

The blonde swordsman gives the troll an ultimatum, both his blades ready for a continued fight. "Give up now and I'll spare your life."

A fast approaching girly scream grabs his attention.

His opponent tries to take advantage of the distraction, but the swordsman makes quick work of the monster with a few skillful swings of his basket-hilt.

A young woman comes rushing through the trees with handfuls of skirt, wheezing for breath as the group chasing her starts to catch up.

Sybil, noticing the lack of pointed ears on the armed man, realizes her mistake in calling out for help. She hides her disappointment under her hood, taking cover behind the fancily-dressed alien. "Please help," she pitifully pleads, putting her hands to her knees to catch her breath.

The four trolls stop short at the sight of the well-dressed blonde. "You."

"Me?" He points to himself with his sword blade raising his eyebrows at the question.

"From Asgard?"

"Of course." He slides his dagger back into his tailored coat, leaning against his basket-hilt sword.

"One of yours is a thief." The enemy points at the the girl with his axe. "Took the war relic."

"Really?" He spares a glance over his armored shoulder at the peasant keep her distance.

"I don't have anything," she wheezes, gulping down air.

"Lies," the squat creature's booming voice yells. "One of yours killed the War Chief and took the relic!"

"I don't have anything," she reiterates, raising her voice.

"There's a party of us here," the blonde man clarifies. "If one of ours did take your relic, then we'll return it."

As the two parties bicker back and forth, Sybil contemplates disappearing and letting the man-shaped aliens duke it out with each other. Then again, they all could come after her and ruin her chance of going back for the old, dull axe she _did_ steal from their chief.

In a fit of anger, the troll raises his axe at the man.

He sidesteps the swing, viciously running him through. His comrades, deciding a retreat to be the better move, drag the fallen soldier through the snow as he bleeds out.

Her savior then turns his attentions back to the peasant woman in the grey cloak.

"Thanks for rescuing me," she huffs, standing back up.

The tall blonde carefully looks over the shoddy cut of her clothing, finding it juxtaposed against the sharper garb of the elvan natives he has seen running about all day. "What were you doing out here wandering alone?"

"Got lost," she simply says.

He grows more suspicious of her every moment. "From where?"

The young lady finally calms her breath, pointing in a random general direction, saying as little as possible.

He notices how the "peasant woman" keeps her head down and the hood over her face. With a ginger flick of the wrist, the fine blade of his basket-hilt sword pokes into her chest. "I don't think you're an elf."

From under the hood, a smirk curls the corner of her lip. "You now have a firm grasp of the obvious, Blondie."

"And you're obviously not a troll," the tall blonde amends, lifting away the material of the cloak to look at the body underneath. "Too many curves."

The peasant slaps away his intruding weapon. "Thanks a lot," she sarcastically rebuts.

He points his sword at her once more, impressed by her bravado. "Perhaps you should follow me. There are others who might want to know about you."

"I'm not really in the mood for company," she snarks, slapping his blade away once more. Thinking her odds better with just the single assailant, she sprints away through the snow.

The blonde swordsman gives an exaggerated sigh, slipping his gilded dagger from his faded green and blue coat. "Why do they always run?" Using his just as skillful eye, the warrior aims the golden blade in her general direction as she tries to run through the trees. A swift flick of the wrist launches the blade at the woman, pinning her skirts to a tree trunk.

While she distracts herself with yanking at handfuls of brown material, the pompous swordsman nonchalantly approaches her, sticking his sword into her chest once more. "Going somewhere?" He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Thief."

The young woman rips her dress away too late. Finding herself outmatched by another alien, she submits to her captor's request, following him across the snowy field to a group of others even more lavishly dressed than he.

"Volstagg! Hogun!"

Amidst fallen bodies of trolls, a rotund, ginger bearded man and an inches shorter dark-haired man turn toward the cheery voice.

"Look what I found dashing about the wilderness." The warrior swiftly slaps her behind with his basket-hilt sword, laughing at her surprised squeal. "A thief."

They sheath their weapons, meeting their comrade and his new prisoner.

"Looks too fat to be an elf," the bearded axe man points out, grabbing hold of her elbow and turning her left and right for a better look at her female frame.

"Says the ginger Santa Claus," she snarks, yanking her elbow from his grasp.

The shorter man reaches out to pull her hood down from her face.

Sybil ducks back from the dark-haired man's hands, but a firm shove from behind pushes her into his waiting appendages.

The man feels her cheek and ear. "Her ears are round and her skin isn't cold. She's definitely not a native." He contemplates her very existence on the planet before hitting a mental dead end. "What do you intend to do with her, Fandral? Not execute her I hope."

Fandral groans under his breath. "I was hoping you or Volstagg would have a better idea than I."

"Did you come with the trolls," the Volstagg character gruffly inquires.

She turns her face from him in defiance, keeping her mouth shut. If they think she has worthwhile information, they might keep her alive, or so she hopes.

"She knows something," he tells the other two. "I say take her to Thor. He'll know how to get it out of her."

Fandral pulls a face. "It's not a terrible idea."

Hogun looks her square in the eye. " _If_ she doesn't play the fool for him as well."

Sybil's brow knits in anger at the implication.

"Where is Thor anyway," the blonde one wonders, leading his prisoner along like he did before.

"He and the Lady Sif are trying to find the leader to see if they can negotiate," Hogun informs him.

The sword-toting blonde makes his incredulity known. "Negotiate what? Surrender? If they have the gall to leave Midgard, then they should at least have the decency to die in battle."

Volstagg makes an enthusiastic grunt of agreement.

"More bloodthirsty idiots," the young lady mumbles to herself. "And they call these troll people the problem."


End file.
